


heal me

by aquaexplicit



Category: The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, But His Interest in Cisco is Genuine, Deduction and Seduction are Sherloque's Gig, Hand & Finger Kink, Hand Jobs, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sherloque Is Shady, Trauma, season 5, tipsy sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-25
Updated: 2018-10-25
Packaged: 2019-08-07 09:03:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16405376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aquaexplicit/pseuds/aquaexplicit
Summary: There are certain things Cisco's injuries prevent him from doing. Sherloque is more than happy to lend a hand.





	heal me

**Author's Note:**

> warnings/notes: cisco is physically and emotionally a mess, and sherloque is not above using that messiness to seduce cisco. cisco has lots of unresolved feelings about cindy and harry. sherloque is shady. there is tipsy sex, ambiguity, and reference to one of sherloque's ex wives being francesca ramon. in the end, sherloque is like most other wells: he's a dick and is fascinated by the finest man he's ever met, cisco ramon.

Cisco ends up slumped on his couch, in a sugar glazed liquor haze, with Sherloque Wells at his side. It happens in the same way every other sloppy, aching pain has happened recently. It happens with the same shuddering origin point. It happens for the same reason.

“I’m a mess.” He says it half to himself, half to the lemon drop he’s poured into a red solo cup because running the dishwasher is pointless for one person. He doesn’t say it to Sherloque. Hopefully talking directly to his cocktail of self pity and alcohol and regret will be the push Sherloque needs to slither back to the labs.

Sherloque doesn’t look away. He doesn’t ignore the gulp of poor decisions Cisco takes the way everyone else has trained themselves to do. He slips closer to it, instead, drawn by Cisco’s open wounds where the others are repulsed. Cisco watches him warily as his fingers, smoother than Harry’s but not as callous free as HR’s had been, curl delicately around Cisco’s cup.

“That’s mine,” Cisco says in half hearted exhaustion. He doesn’t fight as Sherloque gentles it from his hand and places it on the coffee table. There’s no point. “If you’re not gonna let me live in peace, can’t you at least let me drink in it?”

He tries to close his eyes. But as his eyelashes flutter forest dark in his own vision, clouding it the same way dust and death did, he sees Sherloque settle an arm behind him on the couch.

The hair on the back of his neck snaps. His spine whiplashes from comfortably warm and buzzing to taut. His breath holds itself safely away from another Wells’ curiosity. Sherloque smiles, no teeth, all fangs.

“You will find no peace at the bottom of that cup, little one.”

Cisco grits his jaw. “I told you not to call me that. I’m not little. You’re just obnoxiously big.”

“I’ve had no complaints,” Sherloque says, voice and body easy as he shifts closer. He's had more to drink than Cisco has tonight, but not much.

Tipsy and bruised, Cisco’s thoughts trip over each other. His brain lights up that he should be wary, should be alert, but the only thing clear in his blurry head is how odd Sherloque looks without his hat. Not at all like Thawne, or Harry, or any of the other Wells that haunt Cisco behind his eyes. But no Wells look alike to Cisco. They can’t, once he’s seen their hearts bleeding out on their sleeves. Cisco doesn’t know that Sherloque possesses that bloody vulnerability. 

“You’ve been divorced six times. Doesn’t sound like your Yelp rating is exactly a ten out of ten.”

Sherloque skims past the insult. His skin is thicker than Harry’s, than HR’s, than Herr’s even. He twirls over all the cruelty Cisco has the strength to muster. It rubs Cisco raw.

“You are under stress, yes? Too much for one so young.” Sherloque shakes his head, clucking his tongue in disapproval. “The alcohol is not helping.”

“Because it’s on the coffee table. It would be extremely helpful if it was in my hand.”

Sherloque shakes his head again. “The drinking barely numbs the pain anymore, correct? And it does nothing to relieve the tension that has built here.” He taps on his chest, just above his heart, and Cisco bites his lip not to laugh at the sudden memory of his own death. “Fighting, being le big hero, that helped.”

It did. Cisco hates that Sherloque knows that when no one else seems to know. He wants to believe it’s because he’s been better at plugging all of his leaking aches, but he knows that’s as far away from the truth as another Earth. Sherloque sees because he looks. Because he’s the one only looking.

“Now you do not even have that release,” Sherloque says softly. So softly, so gentle and understanding, and Cisco can’t help but close his eyes and lean into it, if only for a breath.

A breath is, apparently, all Sherloque needs.

The hand resting with innocuous energy behind Cisco’s back slips from the couch to Cisco’s cheek. Knuckles graze his skin like the ghost of Cynthia’s touch, an echo of affection and intimacy where only pressure exists in the current timeline. Cisco would flinch. Would push it away. Would tell Sherloque to go deduce himself.

But Cisco’s grief rattles alive, dull and persistent, unable to remember the last time he was touched so easily. The last time he was touched at all.

“It’s been, what? A month since the last time you touched yourself?”

Sherloque says it casually, sweetly, with all the lull of a bottle. It blossoms sharp and painful under Sherloque’s fingers on his skin. Cisco pulls away from his touch, glaring.

“That’s - ” none of your business, Cisco means to say, but his tongue has swelled self pitying in his mouth, and he can’t speak before Sherloque snakes closer. 

“And even longer since someone else touched you. This is a great shame. A tragedy. You were made for touch.”

Cisco does flinch before Sherloque can brush those Devil fingers over him again. “I’ll live. You should go.”

Sherloque sighs, as if Cisco is the unreasonable dick here. “No human can live without it, little one. There is no shame in needing. In aching. You should embrace it.”

“I can embrace it just fine,” Cisco says, feeling his cheeks and ears burn, humiliated and ragged and worn. “So excuse my french, Frenchy, but if you would kindly fuck off - ”

“But you cannot.” Sherloque brings his palms in front of him, flexing his fingers. Cisco frowns. “With your injuries, you cannot embrace yourself, you see? You need a helping hand, oui? Luckily, I have two.”

Cisc’s jaw unhinges, dumb and angry and genuinely too tired to deal with a Wells propositioning him. HR had always been enthusiastic about his heroics and how he looked performing them, and Lothario was never quiet with compliments, but their gazes never glinted the way Sherloque’s does in the dim lamp light, silvered by the moon and the smudges of eyeliner. He’s too struck by the just left of wrong right in his gut to do anything more than blink when Sherloque cradles a slit open palm in his hands.

Sherloque traces Cisco’s bandages with his thumbs. The touch is light, meant to burn with intimacy instead of fire. It still hurts.

“Don’t,” Cisco says, but he’s asking. Please. He doesn’t want to be reminded of everything he’s lost, of the simple things he craves and caves in for. Easy affection. Attention. Touch. He doesn't know that he resist Sherloque's temptation.

“Please understand. I ask for nothing.”

Cisco scoffs, hypnotized by the splay of shadows and Sherloque’s fingers coating his palm. “I doubt that.”

A hint of a smile on Sherloque’s lips, but it’s gone when Sherloque meets his eyes. “I am offering an alternative to drinking yourself into an early grave.”

“A little death,” Cisco quips. He can’t pull his hand away. Maybe he doesn’t want to. Surely he wants to.

Sherloque answers by bringing Cisco’s palm to his lips and placing a surprisingly chaste, gentle kiss to it. “Or three. You seem very stressed.”

Another kiss. Cisco feels his stomach curl in on itself. He doesn’t want to watch the con unfold, even if he wants to feel it, if only because it’s something gentle and something to feel. He knows that’s what this is, what it has to be, because Cisco is stupid, but not this stupid. Not stupid enough to trust another Wells with his heart. To trust this Wells.

“You really think I’m gonna give it up to you, Cumberbatch?” 

“Ah. I must be getting to you. That is one you have used before.” Sherloque brushes his mouth from Cisco’s hand to the backs of his fingers. The soft damp travels through Cisco’s veins, heating his blood in a rush that its forgotten how to run. “And honestly? I do not know.” 

Cisco frowns over a dizzy wave that follows Sherloque’s tongue flicking over his thumb. “You can’t - deduce it?" 

Sherloque must lock onto the hitch in Cisco’s voice. He releases Cisco’s hand, only to cradle the other one, follow the same path with his devastation.

“37 earths, and only one Ramon has allowed me the pleasure of touching them.” There is something wistful, almost real, in the next press of his mouth. “It is why so many Wells try to kick me off the council. Jealousy. So far, I am the only Wells who’s had the privilege.”

Cisco has a moment to be thankful to his doppleganger’s for having the strength of will he apparently doesn’t. “Which Cisco?” he asks, both genuinely curious and comforted by the fact that he’s not the weakest of all of them.

“My third wife.”

That gives Cisco pause, though it doesn’t seem to trip Sherloque in his languid exploration. “I’m a chick on another earth?” Sherloque hums against his fingers. Cisco considers it. “Dope. Was I - am I hot?”

“Magnifique,” Sherloque says easily. “As you are on every earth. But especially here.”

“I bet you say that to all the Ramon’s.” 

Sherloque releases his hand with a final kiss to his knuckles. Cisco finds his breathing has sped, wrecking through his shredded chest, and he’s hot under the skin. Between his legs. He closes his eyes against the weight of his want and embarrassment. He’s keyed up over something so simple. So stupid. 

“Your heart is so open here. Bleeding. You are… different, than others.”

Cisco isn’t convinced it’s not a line, but when he asks himself it matters, he finds it doesn’t. Same as everything else.

When Sherloque strokes his hair, he doesn’t tilt away. He doesn’t lean into the movement, can’t let himself, even as lust drunk as he is, but he doesn’t tell Sherloque to stop. He doesn't want Sherloque to stop. 

“Allow me to help you,” Sherloque presses again. 

Cisco swallows. He’s going to regret this when alcohol and loneliness and need aren’t poisoning his veins.

“Okay,” Cisco shudders. Sherloque’s grin lights the room, thunder and lightning. Cisco knows he’s making a mistake as he makes it. “But to make it clear. I’m not offering anything. I’m not getting you off tonight, or ever. No matter what my bad decision doppelganger did.”

Sherloque accepts the terms with a kiss.

It’s wet, and open as Cisco’s pain, and it feels good. Cisco lets himself sink into the messy pleasure of it with little thought. He kisses back without much care as to whether or not it’s nice for Sherloque. It’s nice for him. Sherloque’s mouth is slippery hot and sweet from his own lemon drop. Cisco gets drunker on Sherloque’s tongue than he’s been able to on shots. 

Cisco’s want is obvious and aching between his thighs. He mewls into Sherloque’s kiss, presses it against Sherloque’s palms as they slip with hunger over Cisco’s jaw and chest and arms. Foreplay is more of a torture than a tease. But Sherloque must know it. Even without his detective experience, Cisco’s neediness is palpable. The way Sherloque skirts his fingers over Cisco’s throbbing hurt is purposeful. 

When Cisco tries to curl his hand around Sherloque’s, though, direct the promised touch where he needs it, pain flares through Cisco’s veins.

He curses, hisses, and Sherloque gathers his wrists in curling fingers and presses them gently on either side of Cisco’s legs.

“Careful, little one,” Sherloque whispers against his cheek. “Or do you need assistance staying still as well? Should I hold you down? Tie you down?”

Heat flushes Cisco, raising his hips to rock against nothing. “I wouldn’t have to make you touch me if you’d just touch me, you French Vanilla dick.”

Sherloque laughs velvet into his neck. “No need for impatience. I know exactly what you need, and I will give it to you.”

“Then give it to me,” Cisco huffs, annoyed and turned on and annoyed at how turned on he is. “Unless you don’t really know. Like you didn’t know who Cicada really was.”

If the words dig insect like under Sherloque’s skin, if they urge Sherloque’s lust or anger, Cisco doesn’t know. Sherloque fills his mouth with that inflaming tongue again and slips his palms between Cisco’s thighs. Cisco shudders open, apart. He keeps his hands where Sherloque placed them. 

Finally, after Cisco is panting into Sherloque’s mouth, after the nerves in his legs are shaking, Sherloque unbuttons his jeans. Cisco doesn’t need genius deductive skills to know what Sherloque wants. He lifts his hips but does little else to help Sherloque work his jeans and boxers down to his knees. It feels triumphant in a brattish, empty way, to obey Sherloque’s direction and watch him suffer the difficulty of it.

But Sherloque doesn’t falter. He wraps his fingers around Cisco with the perfect grip. Hot and firm but even, balanced, designed to make Cisco groan messy into the air instead of spill over Sherloque’s touch already.

“Not a little one everywhere, are you, cherie.”

Cisco would say something clever if the language portion of his brain wasn’t otherwise occupied with the mantra _fuck fuck fuck_. It’s been longer than Cisco realized for a hand job to feel this decadant, this filthy and good. Cisco fucks into Sherloque’s touch without shame or thought. Sherloque encourages him with a toe curling kiss and twist of his wrist.

Sherloque’s thumb slips with cruelty over the slit of Cisco’s dick, swirling precome around the head. Cisco breaks their kiss to gasp for air.

“So wet for me,” Sherloque breathes, too self satisfied for Cisco’s liking. “Wetter than my first wife, and she - ”

“Shut up.” Cisco snaps the words along with the snap of his hips. “I don’t wanna hear about what a deadbeat ex you are. Just. Just keep - ”

Sherloque punishes him, or rewards him, by licking up his throat and jacking him off faster. Cisco can hear the grin on his mouth before he can feel it.

“But you do. You like being compared to others, being found better.” Sherloque bites his ear, not hard enough to hurt, just enough to make Cisco leak even wetter. “And you are.”

It’s probably a lie. Cisco hopes it’s a lie, because the only thing worse than Sherloque’s fake affections would be if they were real. The last thing he needs is someone else to care about or worse, care about him.

But fuck if it doesn’t sound good. If it doesn’t feel good, vibrating over Cisco’s skin, making him harder, hauling him closer to the edge.

“Use your other hand,” Cisco breathes, trying to capitalize on the absolute filth of the moment. He doesn’t move, doesn’t grab Sherloque, just demands with the whine of his voice.

When he thinks Sherloque will listen, though, Sherloque loosens his grip.

“Two minutes,” he says, kissing Cisco shallow and sweet. “If I cup you here - ” and he trails his other fingers over Cisco’s balls “ - and use the pressure you like, you will be finished in two minutes.”

Cisco bites back an embarrassing sound. “Isn’t that the point? Isn’t that what - what you want? To kill me?”

Sherloque stops almost completely. The hand around Cisco’s dick goes firm but stationary and the other grips Cisco’s chin, tilting him into Sherloque’s vision. There is entirely too much sincerity in Sherloque’s gaze. Cisco tries to pull away, but Sherloque holds him still, grip and eyes hotter than concrete.

“No,” Sherloque says, and Cisco believes him. "I want to help you, Cisco."

They kiss again as Sherloque resumes his strokes, softer and slicker this time. He pets Cisco past the point of desperation, then, in a move that sucker punches any semblance of clarity from Cisco’s head, Sherloque sinks to his knees. 

Cisco can only watch in a daze as Sherloque jerks him in firm, fluid motions, laving his tongue over the head of Cisco’s cock, watching in hilarious cross eyed lust as Cisco leaks and twitches. Sherloque finally gives him what he’s straining for and brings his other hand to cup Cisco rough enough to make Cisco say his stupid name.

That unlocks something, and Cisco notes it for later. “Again,” Sherloque demands.

Cisco wants to ignore it. Be contrary. Do anything other than what Sherloque is asking for. But Sherloque sucks him between those lazy lips, and Cisco’s pride hitches itself to the building buzz of pleasure. 

“Sherloque,” Cisco says, breathes, admits.

Sherloque makes a pleased moan and sinks down on Cisco’s dick, far enough that it must gag him, must hurt, but Sherloque doesn’t seem to care and Cisco certainly doesn’t. Cisco comes digging his nails into the couch, saying Sherloque’s name, life hollowed out of him for more than a moment.

It’s a rush of sensation and color. Sherloque is pressed to his side again quickly, opening up his own pants, working his own dick out with an urgency Cisco didn’t think the man could possess. A twinge of curiosity swells Cisco’s lips. It’s been a long time since he’s made another man come, and Sherloque is blood thick, long and smooth enough that Cisco’s tongue swipes at the air for a hint of him.

But he doesn’t want enough to do more than watch Sherloque watch him. Sherloque stares at his face, his mouth, breathing through his nose. 

When Sherloque lifts his stained hand to Cisco’s mouth, Cisco turns. 

“I told you I wasn’t getting you off.”

Sherloque huffs a laugh, a moan. “You did not say you would not help at all, cherie. I only want to know what it feels like inside of you.”

Cisco closes his eyes, but gives in, because Lord help him, he wants to know what Sherloque feels like inside of him too. And after all the nerves he’s stripped live at Sherloque’s feet, what’s this?

He tilts into Sherloque’s touch, allowing the fingerpads to sink into his cheek, before turning to suck Sherloque’s index and middle fingers into his mouth.

Sherloque says something in French, then something else. Cisco can’t tell what it is, but from the slide of Sherloque’s tongue, Cisco can tell it’s obscene. If it’s filth Sherloque wants, Cisco knows he can deliver. He lets his mouth fall open wider, giving Sherloque a widespread view of Cisco’s tongue fucking between his fingers.

Sherloque’s head falls back onto the couch. He keeps his eyes trained on Cisco’s mouth and when he comes, he’s speaking French and Cisco’s name.

- 

The next morning, Cisco remembers Sherloque tucking him into bed. He remembers Sherloque getting him off with that mouth again, then leading him under the covers, then kissing his forehead in an awful parody of intimacy that had made Cisco feel warm and fuzzy inside. 

Cisco slept better than he had in a month.

-

When Barry speeds him into the lab, Sherloque is showing Nora how to brew his stupid special tea. He grins wide upon their arrival. Barry doesn’t seem to notice. Iris doesn’t, either, tip toeing into a good morning kiss before she even realizes Sherloque has halted in his demonstration. 

Nora watches the air between them, eyes squinting, curiosity in full excess.

Cisco scrambles for normalcy. He pretends he didn’t see Wells dick in full technicolor glory and that he doesn’t know how the roof of Wells mouth taste now. He ducks away immediately to find Caitlin and Ralph, unraveling a mystery of Scooby Doo proportions in her office.

He spends the space between his next run in with Sherloque forcing himself not to think of the night before each time his mind slips face first into the memory. On the plus side, there are no clunking sounds of Cynthia in his head, and when he retreats to his workshop, he doesn’t smell her. On the negative, the sound of her voice has been drowned by the echoes of a language he doesn’t understand.

By the time he sees Sherloque again, in the main lab, another glass of tea in hand, Cisco is terrified he’s replaced a ghost with a zombie. One empty horror for another. He presses his fingers into the split that runs from his palm to his heart in an attempt to quiet the worry. All it does is tear him open.

He doesn’t realize until Iris stops mid-briefing to gasp at his hands. “Cisco. Your bandage - ”

Caitlin is the first to his side, followed by Barry. They press close, too close for what Cisco can breathe around these days, cooing and frowning over his injuries. When he tries to step back, it’s into Sherloque’s chest.

“I can change them,” Sherloque offers.

Cisco stares at to him, unsure if he’s speaking English, if he’s saying anything intelligible to anyone else.

The room is painted with wary gazes. 

“I can redress his wounds,” Caitlin says. “It’s my job.”

“Do you not want to continue discussion of this Killer Frost? You want her back, no?”

The tension makes Cisco’s head and hands throb. He offers Caitlin what he hopes is a convincing smile.

“It’s okay. He can do it. You guys keep talking with Nora about what she knows and we’ll be right back.” 

Nora steps forward, clearly ready to speak about something other than what she knows about Killer Frost, but Sherloque tilts his head. Whatever that means, it’s enough to coax Nora into a nod, and back into her explanation of the resident ice queen.

Cisco and Sherloque walk together to medical.

“You wanna tell me what that was about?” Cisco asks, sure Sherloque will utilize evasive maneuvers not to answer the question.

“I am the one who put pressure on your injuries last night,” Sherloque explains. He explains nothing. “I thought I should be the one to wrap them again.”

Once they’ve reached the med bay, Sherloque gestures to a cot. There’s no point in Cisco not hopping onto it and allowing Sherloque to tend to his wounds, so Cisco fights his instinct to fight it, and slides onto the cot. He watches for anything more than what Sherloque means to project as Sherloque gathers supplies and returns to stand in front of him.

“You know I know you’re full of shit, right?” Cisco asks, sure of the answer. 

Sherloque confirms it with a smile. “Spread your legs. I need a little more room to work.” Cisco glances to the empty doorway. “We have at least ten minutes before the good doctor comes to check my work. I will hear her heels.”

Grudgingly, Cisco parts his knees, allowing Sherloque to fill up the empty space between them. He has the urge to link his ankles behind Sherloque's back. Keep Sherloque there.

“I know you’re trying to distract me,” Cisco whispers as Sherloque gingerly unwraps the bindings.

“Is that what I’m doing?” Sherloque asks. He traces the lines of Cisco’s life, following the same pattern his mouth established the night before.

Cisco sits straighter. “Yes,” he says, certain. “Although right now I think you’re mostly trying to tease me.”

“My apologies,” Sherloque says, raising Cisco’s hand to his mouth in a mirror of their moonlight madness.

“I’m gonna figure you out,” Cisco promises. His skin prickles with want heat.

Before Sherloque can respond, they do hear the click clack of heels. Sherloque takes a gracious step backwards, surrendering, but Cisco suspects it’s as much of an act as anything. They finish re-wrapping his hands before Caitlin steps into the room and when she does, it's to assurance that Sherloque has Cisco all fixed up.

They follow her back to the main room. Cisco only half hears what she says. His ears buzz with the warmth of Sherloque walking close behind him, palm pressing over his lower back, until they reach the others.

Sherloque folds his hands behind himself, stepping around Cisco, as if they never touched at all. Cisco has to stop himself from following Sherloque cologne and long con to get another cup of tea.

“Everything okay, Cisco?” Iris asks.

Cisco hates to lie to her, but he does.


End file.
